


The Gate

by wargoddess



Series: The Warden Arcanum [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Fanon?, Anal Sex, Disassociation, Frottage, Implied Torture, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Masturbation, PTSD, Unrequited Lust, Voyeurism, warden!Carver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:50:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen's memories of a certain Amell haunt him, even after he is transferred to Kirkwall.  It takes another Amell to set him straight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gate

     Cullen keeps his eyes on the gate, and never thinks of her face.

     It isn't safe.  _He_ isn't safe.  There are demons in the world, and he has seen them, touched them, been at their mercy.  They have been inside him and he has torn himself apart to get them out.  He's been put back together, but badly, and perhaps a little wrong.  He isn't sure anymore.  And it does not matter, so long as he does not think of her face.  That is what lets the demons in.

     Something catches his attention one day.  _Mage_ , he thinks at first -- and for an instant, seeing the rawboned man carrying the conspicuous staff, he is so certain of it that his hand drifts toward his sword.  But would an apostate be so foolish, or so bold, as to walk into the Gallows with a smile on his face?  And it is the smile which really undoes him, because --

     -- because --

     -- it is the same, that smile, _the same_ , and it is not _safe_ \--

     -- so he focuses on the man's face instead, committing it to memory, because an apostate mage is a nightmare waiting to be dreamt, and it is Cullen's duty to watch.  He will wait until he's sure, of course; one cannot become a monster to fight monsters.  But when he is sure... yes.

     He is distracted, however, when the man's companion drifts away from him and toward Cullen.  This one is taller, broader, as plainly _warrior_ as the other is _mage_ , and they look much the same.  This one is younger, though, and sterner-faced, and not nearly so confident as his -- brother?  Yes, brother, must be.

     "Uh, hi," the boy says, looking nervous as he approaches.  Then abruptly he stiifens and straightens and Cullen sees that he is not so young as he first seemed, or at least not so innocent.  There's a hardness in his face that screams _refugee_ , and a hauntedness in his manner that Cullen has come to see as a mark of the Blight.  Or some other tragedy, perhaps, since Cullen sees the same look in his mirror, most mornings.

     "Blessings of the Maker to you," Cullen replies, still eyeing the elder brother over this one's shoulder.  That one is talking to Tobrius.

     The boy has noticed Cullen's gaze, which is perhaps why he is scowling and radiating protectiveness so palpably.  Cullen wonders if the boy has learned to Silence or Smite.  The skills do get out, somehow, despite the Chantry's stranglehold on its defenders.

     "Yeah," he replies to Cullen, "same to you.  Am I catching you at a bad time?"

     There is more to this than protectiveness; the boy's face has gone hard with resentment too.  He does not like being ignored in favor of his brother, oh no.  And Cullen is being rude, so finally he focuses on the boy.

     "Not at all," he says, and adds, "Forgive me.  It is of course my duty to keep an eye on -- Tobrius."  If the boy notices the slight pause, he does not show it; Cullen's apology seems to have been enough to mollify him.  "But it is also my duty to answer any questions the public might have about the Gallows.  How might I assist you?"

     "I was wondering how you become a..." 

     And then the boy trails off, finally noticing that Cullen stands beneath the statue of a weeping, pleading slave.  Cullen waits, patiently, while the boy's face changes from something almost belligerent to something almost sorrowful.  Then, more softly, he says, "I had a sister who was a mage."

     _You have a brother who is a mage._   But delicately, Cullen prompts, "Had?"

     The boy nods, solemn.  "Darkspawn killed her.  We'd been living -- hiding -- in Lothering, and we'd waited too long.  Afraid to travel with anyone else given she'd have had to use magic if we were attacked." 

     He pauses, regarding Cullen for a long moment, as if waiting to see whether Cullen denounces him on the spot for harboring an apostate.  But Cullen is silent, amazed that this stranger has said such a thing to him at all, so the boy adds, "So she died because she was a mage, in a way.  We'd have left earlier, if not for that.  And that fucking -- ogre -- "  He falters silent and looks away, and for the first time since Kinloch, Cullen feels pity for someone other than himself.

     "I am sorry," he says gently, though the words seem inadequate.

     The boy -- no.  Not a boy, not with such a burden of grief lying heavy upon him.  The _young man_ nods, absently.

     "My sister would have been happy in a Circle.  I don't think it's for everyone."  And he looks up in challenge; Cullen knows by this that he has no intention of turning in his brother.  "But for her, it would have been... a lifesaver.  So I want to say... well... thank you."

     Cullen blinks.  "Thank you?"

     "Yeah.  If you're the kind of Templar who does it right, I mean, making the world safe _for_ mages and not just _from_ them.  Some of us appreciate what you do, is all I'm saying."  He lifts his chin, belligerent again, as if it costs him something to be complimentary to a Templar.  "So."

     It is... unexpected.  Beyond unexpected; astonishing.  Cullen has been a Templar since he was barely legal enough to join; no one has ever thanked him for it.  He does not realize he has smiled until the young man blinks and blushes a little. 

     Smiling feels strange.  It's been a long time.

     But Cullen's smile falls away when the young man shyly smiles back, and _it is that smile_.  Solona Amell's smile, impossibly, in this young man's face.

     "Uh, I'm Carver Hawke.  I'm Fereldan too -- wait, you're Fereldan, right?  Shit, tell me you're not a Kirkwaller about to get all insulted."

     "I am Fereldan, yes," Cullen murmurs, caught between horror and awe.

     "Oh.  Good."  That smile widens the way hers used to whenever Cullen responded to her flirtations, one part shy and two parts puppyish and three parts warm.  Altogether it is a punch in the gut.  "I mean, technically I'm a Kirkwaller too by my mother, not that Kirkwallers think I qualify.  She was born and raised here, and my uncle too.  He never left.  Gamlen Amell?"  Cullen twitches, and the boy grimaces.  "Wait, no, you wouldn't know him, he's too much of a dick to talk to Templars.  Anyway.  You have a name?"

     Amell.  His uncle is an Amell.  His mother is an Amell.  _He_ is an Amell.  And the smile that has tormented Cullen through a hundred nightmares is _the Amell smile_.

     It occurs to Cullen that he has been asked a question.

     "Cullen," he says, after only the slightest pause.  "Knight Captain Cullen."  _Endurance of the Order_ , he does not add, although he always thinks it, since the day it was bestowed upon him.

     "Knight _Captain_?  I should be more respectful, then."  And this young man, this _Amell_ , grins and rubs at the back of his head with such an utter lack of respect, and yet such guileless ease, that Cullen almost smiles again in reflex.  "Well.  I was gonna ask more questions, but I've talked your ear off enough, and -- "  He twitches, that Amell smile fading, as his brother calls his name from across the yard.  "Yeah.  Duty calls."

     Cullen nods.  "You may ask me any questions that you wish," he says, "if we meet again."

     "I'll do that, then!"  Waving, Carver Hawke strides off, and Cullen watches him until he and his brother are out of sight.  Then he keeps his eyes on the gate again, and never thinks of her face...

     ...but when his resolve fails, as it always does, and he thinks of her face again, as he always does, it is different this time.  He sees only that so-familiar smile in his mind's eye.  The face that surrounds it is not hers.

     This troubles him for the rest of the afternoon.

#

     Cullen keeps his eyes on the gate, and never thinks of her face.

     But he sees something of that face anyway, as the two young men -- _Hawke_ is their family name, not Amell but _Hawke_ , he owes them the courtesy of immediacy and not memory -- visit the Gallows several times, over the next few months.  Carver Hawke's brother never reveals himself for a mage, but he certainly shows himself to be a canny survivor.  The two of them constantly involve themselves in the business of the city, especially where there is money to be made.  That they have not yet fallen into Darktown with the other refugees -- or so Cullen's investigators tell him -- or run afoul of slavers or the Coterie or the Carta, is a testament to the elder Hawke's determination to keep his family safe.

     Cullen... cannot condemn him for this, apostate or no apostate, so he tells his Hunters to continue watching.  For now.

     True to his word, Carver asks endless questions -- about becoming a Templar, about what it's like to be a Templar, about the pay and the hours and whether it's true that you have to swear celibacy because he's not sure he could take that.  And in between the questions, as he did in their first meeting, he tells Cullen the sorts of things that strangers rarely tell other strangers.  Cullen feels obliquely honored to have somehow earned this instant trust.

     For example.  "I was named for a Templar," Carver says, by way of greeting as he comes over to Cullen one cloudy afternoon.  "Can you believe that?"

     "Were you, now?"  It is easy to smile for him, Cullen finds.  The Hawkes' frequent visits mean Cullen gets a lot of smiling practice.  "This Templar must have been special, to have impressed your parents so."

     "Suppose so."  Carver shrugs.  He has a bandage around his upper arm, and a fist-shaped bruise on his jaw, though neither seem to trouble him.  Cullen glances at his brother, who is talking to Thrask; the brother hasn't a scratch on him.  Cullen returns his attention to Carver before Carver notices, however.  "That's what Templars are supposed to be, though, right?  Special.  They stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter." 

     Cullen blinks, but Carver is not mocking the Chant.  He's looking off at something, one of the Tranquil, and his thoughts seem miles away.  Then he frowns, his gaze sharpening, and Cullen realizes that particular Tranquil is a young woman who was _not_ Tranquil on Carver's last visit, perhaps two weeks before.

     "We try," Cullen says, feeling the words as a weight in his own chest.  He knows who has broken Chantry law to destroy this woman's soul, and he knows why Alrik did it, and the knowledge makes him sick inside.  "We do not always succeed.  And sometimes -- "  But no.  These are not words for a stranger.

     But Carver isn't a stranger, is he?  Cullen knows things about him that no one, except perhaps his brother, knows.  It is not hard to guess that without his twin, Carver is in desperate need of a confidante -- so desperate that he even talks to a tired-eyed, broken-and-badly-mended exile of a Templar whom he barely knows, and whose own people shun him outside of duty.  Perhaps it is only fair that Cullen confide a little, himself.

     So when Carver looks at him quizzically, he sighs and says, "Sometimes _we_ are the corrupt and the wicked who must be guarded against."

     Carver sobers.  "Yeah.  I get that."

     He is not looking at his brother, as Cullen half expects, but there is a shadow in his face nevertheless.  Then Cullen remembers something else Carver has told him, about surviving Ostagar and the national betrayal that took place there.  No, Carver has not been a boy since at least that day.

     He wonders, fleetingly, whether Solona looked like this after Ostagar.  Then he quickly pushes this thought from his mind.

     Carver helps him, distracts him, by flashing him that Amell smile.  "Been thinking about joining the Order, y'know."

     It is so obvious that Cullen wonders why he hasn't joined yet.  "You have combat experience, substantial skill, admirable focus.  Familiarity with mages."  He keeps this casual, and Carver does not twitch.  Neither of them are stupid.  "You would be a welcome addition to our ranks."

     Carver shifts from foot to foot and does not meet Cullen's eyes.  "Family comes first, for me," he says.  "It always will.  I know Templars aren't supposed to be that way."

     Ah.  "Templars are supposed to be _people_ , not mindless swords," Cullen replies.  "People care for other people.  So long as a man keeps the Maker's will foremost -- as all men should, Templars or no -- there is no conflict between duty and love."  He pauses, allowing Carver to digest this, and then adds more softly, "Many in the Order have apostate relatives."

     Carver glances at him, thoughtful, and Cullen knows this was the right thing to say.  So Cullen does not add that those with apostate relatives are pressured to turn those relatives in, or that knights who fail to do so will never rise high in the ranks.  And he definitely does not say, _If we take your brother, you will be the one made to oversee his Harrowing_. 

     It is his duty to recruit, after all, and the omissions are not lies.  Carver is a fool if he hasn't guessed these things, anyway.

     Carver frowns a little to himself.  But then he nods and says, "Thanks.  I'll think about it."

#

     There is one time when Cullen allows himself to think about her face.

     He masturbates before bed each night.  This is not hedonism; it is a necessary chore.  It is sanity.  If he dreams of sex he might wake up screaming and unable to stop.  The last time this happened, at Kinloch, _after_ , the spirit healer on duty tried to put him to sleep -- but before he could, Cullen tried to kill the man.  It took three Templars to pin Cullen down and knock him out.  Not long after, Greagoir had Cullen transferred to Kirkwall.

     Cullen is determined not to let the madness take him here.  So each night he lies down naked, massage liniment in hand, and works at his cock methodically.  To help the process along, he closes his eyes and allows his mind to generate the images he keeps at bay by daylight.

     Solona undressing in the open bathroom of the Kinloch apprentice chambers.  Templars are supposed to think of Chant verses while they watch the mages defecate and insert their pessaries and don their smallclothes and whatnot, but Cullen did not do this whenever it was his turn.  He remembers her undressing, and he remembers her tugging her breasts up to sit above her corset, and he remembers her long, limber hands dragging a soapy sponge over her smooth brown skin.  He remembers watching her reach down to open the soft folds between her legs so that she could be clean everywhere.  She was always fastidious.

     And she knew he was watching.  Templars were always watching.  She just didn’t care, because she couldn't do anything to stop him watching; like most of the mages, she'd simply gotten used to it.  So Cullen watched -- his cock aching, his fingers tingling, his breath coming shallow, his lips wet behind the shield of his helmet.  It was wrong and a sin but he could not, could not, stop himself.

     Just like now.  As the sound of his hand fills the room, Cullen lets the memory repeat itself, even though he knows where it will end.  Now Solona stops washing herself  and ignoring him.  Instead she is fingering herself and smiling at him.  And now she is stepping out of the tub and strolling toward him with _that smile_ on her lips, and next she is kneeling at his feet and her mouth is opening.  He _sees_ the fangs within, he _knows_ what she is, and yet.  And yet.

     The demon's tongue was exquisite, he remembers.  So was the agony that she inflicted when he pushed her away.

     So as Cullen shudders and comes onto his own belly, he also curls up and tries to protect his head.  He clenches his hand around his seed and folds this arm over his belly and the vital organs that it contains.  Against his will he imagines phantom claws sinking into his back; a phantom long, forked tongue wandering over his buttocks and -- and -- he makes a harsh sound of negation; and a phantom voice growling into his ear to say

     _She hated you, she **hated**_ _you, all her smiles were lies, she knew you watched her and she despised you for it, she never wanted you, others got to taste those clean wet folds of hers but never you, no one wants you, no one but me, no one will be with you, no one but me, open up and I'll stop hurting you, I don't want to do this to you, let me in and I'll give you pleasure like you've never known._

     He shakes with the horror of this, for a while.

     And then, carefully, completely, he rejects it.  It is a ritual by now.  He takes a deep breath and whispers a prayer to the Maker for protection, and his heart slows.  He clenches his hand and grimaces at the sticky unpleasant squelch of it, and thus reminds himself that this is no demon's illusion.  He touches his shoulders where there are no scars, and reminds himself that it was all in his mind -- the demon, the pleasure, the agony, the blood.  Eventually his shaking ceases.

     He repeats this ritual as needed until he falls asleep.  When he does it right, there are never dreams.

#

     He stands at the gate, and never thinks of her face.  But he frowns when Carver says, "We're going to the Deep Roads soon."

     Garrett Hawke is in the west courtyard talking to Solivitus, and Cullen knows he should be watching to see whether the man buys mage goods from the shop next door.  But he cannot focus on that. 

     "I am aware that the Deep Roads become less dangerous after a Blight has ended," Cullen says, "but -- is that wise?"

     Carver shrugs, big broad shoulders somehow managing to convey boyish unease.  "Wise or not, it's the only way we'll survive in this city.  Might as well sell our souls for gold as for copper."

     Cullen twitches all over.  "You should not 'sell your soul' for _any_ price, Carver.  You are too good a man; only the Maker merits you."

     Carver glances at him, eyebrows raised, and belatedly Cullen realizes he has said this with substantial vehemence.  But then Carver smiles and sort of blushes, and that is _her_ smile again, the true Solona's smile and not the demon's, it makes no sense that he ever confuses the two.

     "I'll join up when I come back," Carver says, and there is something in his voice, a softness, that makes Cullen think

     _please_

     before he frowns and wonders why.

     "I shall look forward to it," is all Cullen says, instead.

#

     Cullen tries to think of her face that night, and fails.  Rather, he can think of her, but... something is strange. He summons the memories of her bathing and feels nothing -- no arousal, no shame.  He tries to imagine her smile, but suddenly cannot remember quite what it looked like.

     He touches himself, but tentatively, just out of habit, and after a while he stops, unfulfilled -- but also uninterested.  So troubling is this change that he errs and falls asleep.  He wakes the next morning well-rested, unafraid, and very confused.

#

     Cullen keeps his eyes on the gate, and finds that it is not at all difficult to never think of her face.

     He goes to confession that day, as he does every week, and says, hesitantly, "Something is different.  Better."

     The brother who hears his confession nods, his voice thoughtful.  "Perhaps you are healing at last."

     Perhaps.

#

     Cullen keeps his eyes on the gate.  But now he sees other things as well, noticing what once he would have missed in his misery.  He finds himself focusing more on his problems in the present, and not those of the past.

     It is a good change, and a good feeling.  He begins to notice the other Templars nodding to him, where once they showed only resentment and unease in his presence.  Now and again he catches an odd, hopeful look from the mages, which he does not understand at all.  They will find no mercy from him; he has no patience for their weaknesses or corruption.  Yet it is the ones who are not corrupt, the ones who pray alongside him in the Chantry and who show by their actions that they understand the responsibility of magic, who finally come to him for help.  Because they actually believe he _can_ help them, at last.

     So he investigates the things they've told him, and is shocked to find their accusations true:  a group of senior knights is running a lyrium-smuggling ring on the side.  The corrupt Templars offer mages who are caught trying to run away -- instead of killing them or bringing them back in, the Templars have been selling them as slaves.  The Carta takes the slaves and gives the Templars lyrium.  _Tevinters_ buy the slaves, for sale to their magister masters, to be used for whatever filthy magics a mage's blood is needed.  Templars of the White Divine are actually helping Tevinter magisters.  It is a horror that Cullen can barely credit.

     He gathers his evidence, and his allies, carefully.  The Carta is nothing to trifle with.  Yet he is surprised to find fellow-feeling in knights who have previously snubbed him:  Ser Thrask, and Ser Emeric, and a goodly number of others.  Even Meredith backs him, when he presents his findings to her.  Mages are to be protected from themselves, not sold like pieces of meat.

     Cullen plans the operation carefully, and it goes down as if Maker-blessed:  the corrupt knights are caught for trial, the Carta thugs and Tevinters are mostly killed, and the survivors are sent back to their masters with a warning to never interfere in Gallows business again.  The mages have been so ill-used that they beg to return to the Gallows.  It is disturbing but also heartening when a mage clings to him, sobbing and thanking him over and over, until finally Cullen sighs and pats her back awkwardly and asks her to please calm down.

     _That's what Templars are supposed to be, right?_

     Yes.  This is the Order as it should be.  Cullen looks forward to inducting Carver into this sacred brotherhood.

     But a few days later, as he keeps his eyes on the gate, he is surprised to see Garrett Hawke approaching.  The man looks exhausted and paler than usual, and though he's wearing expensive new clothing and gear, he walks as if it weighs a hundred pounds.

     "Knight Captain," he says.  "You're looking well."

     _You are not, mage_ , Cullen thinks, but he says, "Serrah Hawke.  I take it your venture into the Deep Roads was successful?"

     "It was, in some ways."  Then he falls silent, facing at Cullen with that terrible weight in his gaze, and suddenly it occurs to Cullen that Carver has not come with his brother.  Perhaps Cullen's face changes to reflect this realization, because Hawke then sighs and says, "I think you were, er, friends with my brother.  You should know -- "

     _please, not dead_ , Cullen thinks.

     " -- that things did not go well for him.  He was... Tainted.  We sent him off with a group of Grey Wardens; there is a chance becoming a Warden could save him.  But the Wardens do not hold with family ties.  We'll only know he survived if he comes back, or gets word to us somehow."

     Maker and His Bride.

     "He was supposed to become a Templar," Cullen says softly, to himself.  "He'd asked me...  It was what he planned to do, after the trip."

     Hawke blinks at this, then laughs a little, bitterly.  "There was a time when I would've been horrified at the thought.  But as a Templar, I could have _seen_ him, at least.  I would have known he was alive."  He sighs, heavily, and shakes his head.  "Well.  I just thought...  He liked you, much as he liked anyone.  You needed to know."  He waves, and heads off.

     In his wake, Cullen watches the gate, and feels regret.  Again.

#

     In the months and then years that follow, Cullen watches the gate and thinks of Carver's face.  Not often.  He is busy, because Kirkwall is a city beseiged with evil magic, and evil men.  Yet now and again, as he catches his breath between crises, he finds himself missing those impromptu deep conversations, and thinking of what might have been.  He is glad, at least, for what he has now:  a focused mind, a clear heart.  Perverse as it seems, Kirkwall in all its foulness has washed him clean.  He has purpose again.

     This despite one jarring moment as he learns demons infest his recruits.  (The boy Keran looks as though he will never sleep well again.  For that reason, more than Hawke's recommendation, Cullen decides to keep him in the ranks.  He will need a purpose, if he is to survive.)  And there are other, more troubling incidents, which he struggles to manage as Meredith grows ever more disinterested in the day-to-day affairs of the Gallows, and Orsino -- who should be her partner -- becomes more and more an adversary.

     When the Qunari strike, it is like the breaking of a long-gathering storm.  Cullen finds himself almost relieved to be running through the streets with sword in hand, facing monsters that he can see and touch and kill.  He is a sword of the Maker, a defender of the faith, and as he squares off against one of their arvaraads -- who is guarding a saarebas that Cullen has already Silenced -- the giant pauses at one point in the battle and says, "You have purpose.  I have never seen a bas who knows his place so well."

     " _Your_ place," Cullen says, advancing on him, "is _out of my city_."

     When those are dealt with, he turns to find that his men have slain the remainder, with some help from the city guard.  He marshalls them, thanks the guardsmen, and heads for the docks.  The attack caught Cullen and the other officers in the city; the Gallows are currently leaderless.  (Meredith has never made contingency plans for a circumstance like this, despite Cullen's urging.  It is frustrating... but no, he has no time to think about this now.) 

     But when they reach the docks, the way is blocked by one of the city defense gates.  There is another party standing there, looking up at the gates in equal frustration.  They aren't Qunari, but they tense as Cullen and his men approach, and he stops, wondering if they face a new threat.

     Then one of the warriors straightens and laughs, and Cullen flinches as the man steps away from the gate and Cullen _remembers that face_.  Carver.  In Grey Warden heavy armor, older and more careworn, but that is definitely his wide-legged stance, and he wears the same lopsided smile.

     "Never seen you out of the Gallows, Cullen," he says, coming forward and offering his arm.  Reflexively Cullen extends his and Carver catches his forearm in a hard, reassuring grip.  This is the first time Carver has ever touched him.  "It's weird."

     "I thought you were dead," Cullen says, in wonder, in quiet joy.  "Your brother said..."

     Carver sighs.  "Maker, he's so useless.  I wrote him to let him know I'd made it through the Joining.  Suppose I should've written you, too, but we've been a little busy."  He turns back to the obstructing gate, scowling, all business again.  "We're going to bring this thing down."

     Cullen makes himself focus.  "To reach the docks?  That is our goal as well.  But these gates have dwarven locks and hinges; we can neither pick them nor batter them loose."

     "We can bring them down."  This comes from an older man among the Wardens, who speaks with an Orlesian accent.  The man nods to another man of their number, who -- ah.  Whose long-bladed spear is not a spear at all.  The man hefts the spear and glances at the Templars, his face tightening.  But then he cuts his hand on the spear, and raises it toward the gate.

     Power, blood-red and ugly, pours forth, and Cullen goes rigid all over at the familiar, hideous feel of it.  It is like rot, eating away at his skin; like acid, burning.  Without thinking he lifts a hand and clenches a fist to Smite it away -- but before he can, Carver's hand clamps down on his wrist.  "Don't."

     Cullen looks at him, his heart clenching at the betrayal.  "A blood mage!"

     "A _Warden_."  Carver moves to stand between Cullen and the working mage, gripping his arm, his face hard.  "Look, I felt the same way you did, once.  But think, for the Maker's sake!  If blood magic is used to save the world, what is it?  Is it evil?"

     Cullen stares at him, and he is shaking, hearing Uldred's voice, hearing a demon's laugh.  " _All blood magic is evil._ "

     Carver draws back, his eyes widening, and Cullen realizes he has growled these words.  Spittle flecks his lips.  Carver's eyes flick down to Cullen's arm, and Cullen suddenly knows he can feel Cullen shaking.  When Carver looks up, there is something heavy and dark and sad in his face.  This expression on his face breaks Cullen's rage.

     "Sometimes you need a little evil to do a lot of good," Carver says, finally.  "Maybe one day you can forgive me for that."

     He lets Cullen go and turns away, and Cullen stares at his back, stricken.

     The mage has done his work, though, using blood magic to suck all the life out of the wood and leather and metal of the gate; effectively he has rotted it apart.  The hinges shatter, and the metal plates disintegrate into flaky rust when the Orlesian pushes against it.  The way is clear.

     The Wardens go forward, though Carver pauses and looks at Cullen, to see if he will follow.  After a moment Cullen nods, and signals his men to come too.  Carver is right about one thing:  there are greater dangers in the streets right now than one blood mage.

     And sure enough there is another party of Qunari at the docks, this one with _two_ saarebas.  (The Viscount should have demanded an accounting of their mages before ever allowing them within the city.  Meredith should have insisted -- but no, not now.)  There are elven archers with them, which makes the fight especially deadly, but the Wardens' group includes two fighters who seem to vanish and strike from the shadows, and they make short work of the archers while the warriors and mages fight.  Before this is done, however, Cullen takes arrows in the shoulder and hip, and the pain is so distracting that he almost fails to Smite one of the saarebas in time to stop his infernal spell.  But he does, and the Wardens take the saarebas down.  One of his men helps him pull the arrows out while Carver beheads the sten with the help of the Orlesian.  Finally it is over.  For now.

     The Wardens commandeer an abandoned sailing yacht nearby.  While his comrades go over the vessel to make sure it's seaworthy, Carver comes over to Cullen.  "You all right?"

     "I will live," says Cullen tightly, though his face is sheened with sweat and Maker, his hip hurts.  "And you?"  Carver looks exhausted.  He has looked like that the whole time.

     Carver shakes his head.  "Miles to go before we sleep.  The world's falling apart in more places than Kirkwall."  He rubs his temple, and Cullen realizes all of a sudden that he is leaving, that this is all.  That he is alive, but he will never be a Templar; he has embraced his life as a Warden.  Cullen may never see him again.

     This is the second time he has lost an Amell to the Wardens.  But at least this time he can say goodbye first.

     "I will think on what you have said," Cullen says, glancing at the blood mage and fighting every instinct within him which cries _kill it kill it kill it now before the demons come_.  The man sighs and looks away, and Cullen does the same, focusing on Carver because _he_ is what matters here.  And Carver is smiling, just a little, which twists up things inside Cullen for which he has no name.  It makes him smile too, and he realizes he has gotten out of practice with this again.  "I shall continue to regret that you did not become a Templar, however."

     "Yeah.  Me, too."  Carver sighs.  "But nobody becomes a Warden who isn't meant to be.  It's the same job in the end anyway, isn't it?  Fighting evil magic.  We just go about it different ways."

     Evil magic, rather than evil mages.  Hmm.  "I... will think on that, too.  Regardless, I shall take comfort in knowing you are well."

     One of Cullen's men calls to him; they are ready to cast off.  Cullen waves that he is coming, and winces as this jars his shoulder.  Carver is already backing toward his ship.

     "Wardens don't say goodbye," he calls to Cullen, and he is grinning as if he's happy.  It makes no sense.  "Life's too short.  We say, 'I'll see you soon.'  Say it!"

     Cullen stares at him.  They are on a pier with the city burning around them. He didn't even know Carver was alive until this hour.  But Cullen _does_ still think of his smile sometimes -- and here it is.  Flesh, not memory.  Now, not then.

     So Cullen puts his fist to his breast, and inclines his head.  "Soon," he replies.  "It is a promise."

     Then Carver is gone, off to defend the world, and Cullen goes back to the Gallows, to defend his small piece of it.

#

     It begins to go wrong, however, a little at a time.  Cullen watches the gates that have begun to feel like those of a prison, and he thinks of the face that might have made his days a little brighter.  And privately, reluctantly, he begins to think that Carver has found the better destiny.

     He cannot regret Ser Alrik's death; the man was odious.  He cannot blame the other senior knights, Thrask and his compatriots, for shunning him again; they know that he is loyal to Meredith, and they blame her for the Gallows' dysfunction.  There is more than a grain of truth in this.  Cullen cannot understand why Meredith alternates between demanding pointless missions to pursue phantom abominations, and being the woman he once admired more than anyone in the Order.  The people ask too much of her, surely, and the toll is beginning to tell.  He tries to shield her as much as he can, because that is his nature, yet he wonders if by doing so he is only making things worse.

     Preoccupied with things beyond his duties, he makes mistakes.  Catching Karras coming out of a young mage's room late one night -- the mage is ill-looking and walking oddly, but he refuses to say what Karras did -- Cullen loses his temper and slams Karras against a wall, threatening him.  The next day one of the Tranquil warns him, even as she sets down a tray of food on his desk, that it has been poisoned.  She will not tell him by whom, because she finds continued existence agreeable, but she would also like for Cullen to continue existing, because he makes life in the Gallows more optimal.  He thanks her, dismisses her, then stares down at the deadly food for a long while, wondering how in the Maker's name it has come to this.

     He confides -- Maker, is he so desperate? -- in Hawke, of all people, when Hawke comes to do business in the Gallows.  Hawke, whose Amell smile is rare these days; who is alone, now that he has lost his entire family to evil magic; who has found solace in the arms of a mage-hating warrior elf.  Cullen admits to Hawke that he understands why many think Meredith mad.  Hawke, for his part, confesses to Cullen that he has taken up with the elf " -- because we can't all have good Templars, can we?"  And he smiles at Cullen, lopsidedly.  "There aren't enough of you to go around, Knight Captain, and the Wardens have taken my brother.  Some of us must find substitutes where we can."

     Substitutes.

     Cullen masturbates rarely these nights -- not because he has purified himself of desire, far from it, but because of the direction in which his desires have turned.  He can still imagine long-ago sexual encounters from the days when he indulged such things, and occasionally the memory of Solona still excites him, for he is a man after all, and she was beautiful.  But more often his yearnings are more inchoate things, piecemeal images and sensations whose whole he cannot grasp.  Strong, limber hands on sword-hilts.  A low, easy laugh.  Big broad shoulders rising in a shrug.  Cullen fears to let his fantasies complete themselves lest he find the face of a brother Templar at the end of them; right now, in the Gallows as they are, it is too dangerous to have a lover, or even an object of lust.  Yet he hungers to let his fantasies develop because perhaps it is not a Templar... perhaps...

     How fortunate that he has such skill at pushing away unwanted desires.

     He is watching the gate and thinking of nothing one day when a familiar figure appears within it.  Cullen dismisses this as fancy at first, even though the loping gait is... and the height is right, but... and that is blue Wardens' chain that he is wearing.  Even as Cullen catches his breath, he still does not quite _believe_ until the man gets close enough, and smiles that Amell smile.

     "Told you I'd see you soon," he says to Cullen.

     "I... don't understand."  He has spent over a year telling himself he will never see Carver again.

     "More business with Brother in the Deep Roads.  You'd think I'd be tired of going down there with him."  Carver sighs, but Cullen thinks that he looks... pleased.  Yes.  "Still, we took care of some family business, and actually mended some fences.  It's nice, strange, to be friends with him after all this time..."  Carver shakes himself a little and focuses on Cullen again.  "Anyway.  Figured I'd drop by and say hello before I headed back to Ansberg."

     "You -- "  And now Cullen can see it on him, and smell it:  long-unwashed sweat, that acrid foulness he associates with darkspawn, a whiff of blood.  There is a splatter of _something_ on Carver's right boot.  It's greenish and clotted and horrifying.  Appalled, Cullen cannot tear his eyes from it.

     Carver follows his gaze down and twitches.  "Oh.  Brother invited me to stay the night, get clean and rest up, but we were actually getting along, I didn't want to mess it up by spending more time with him..."  He sniffs himself shamelessly and grimaces.  "Maker, I'm _rotten_.  And probably crawling with Taint.  Uh, sorry."  He holds up his hands and actually takes a step back.  "I should, uh, go get a room at the Hanged Man, hit up a bathhouse -- "

     "You'll stay with me, of course."  The words are out before Cullen has time to think _what am I saying?_   But they are said, and he is surprised at himself but glad that he has said them, because... because...

     Perhaps.

     No.  Simply because Carver is a friend.

     Carver draws him back to reality with a wry, skeptical look.  "Last I checked, Cullen, I wasn't a Templar or a mage, to go through those gates."  He nods towards the Gallows' bulk.

     Cullen makes himself laugh, but his palms are all over sweat within their gauntlets.  Why?  He will not think about it.  "Being Knight Captain does have some benefits.  I have a guest room -- it is small, but well-kept, largely because it is rarely used.  But it is yours for the night.  If you wish."

     And he thinks, _Please_.

     Carver shifts, looking uncertain for a moment, and then suddenly his eyes search Cullen's face with an intensity that is almost shocking.  But then he softens and chuckles and nods.  "All right.  Not that I've got much money anyway.  Being a Warden doesn't exactly pay well."

     Cullen smiles and turns and beckons for him to follow.  In the same gesture he catches the eye of his adjutant, and signals that he is going off-duty.  "Being a Templar does."

     "Rub it in, why don't you."

     They laugh together, and head inside.

     Carver insists on cleaning his armor himself because it's probably Tainted, so Cullen summons recruits and has them bring disposable cleaning supplies and a separate armor rack on which his leathers can dry.  Then Cullen sends one of the recruits to inform Meredith that he is hosting a Grey Warden for the evening, in the interest of furthering the friendship between their orders, and so on.  Meredith will not care, he knows; she hears nothing that does not contain the words _blood magic_.  He also sends a recruit -- Keran, whom he knows is loyal -- to the Gallows kitchens to oversee the preparation of a meal for them both.  Cullen keeps some food in his quarters, now, but would not inflict his poor cooking on a guest.

     Then Cullen tries to relax, because he has never had anyone in his quarters before, and he feels Carver's presence keenly as he goes about his own evening routine.  Cullen does not usually clean his own armor -- being Knight Captain has some benefits -- but he sits on the couch opposite Carver to do so out of a sense of camaraderie, and because he needs something to do with his hands.

     Carver, for his part, is a remarkably calming houseguest.  He does not speak while he cleans his armor, taking visible care as he tucks used rags into the satchel the recruits have provided, and then going a step further and scrubbing the floor in the foyer where he removed his boots.  He jokes that it would be a terrible thing for Cullen to stub his toe and become a darkspawn ghoul.  Then, though Cullen is done with his armor already, Carver racks and polishes each piece.  This -- the sound of cloth on metal, the scent of linseed oil and lavender, all as familiar to him as his sword -- is what finally allows Cullen to get comfortable.  Cullen is so comfortable, in fact, that he dozes off on his couch.

     He wakes to the sound and smell of water, which confuses him; have the recruits been in to run him a bath?  Then he remembers his guest and sits up bearily, rubbing his face to try and wake up.  He isn't used to napping.  The room smells of food as well, which means that Keran has come and gone.  The satchel of rags that Carver used on his armor is burning to ash in the fireplace.  Cullen's been asleep for at least an hour.

     Then Cullen looks up, and freezes.

     His quarters are small, even though he has the luxury of guest space and decent furnishings.  The door to the bathing-chamber is open, probably because it's awkward to close the door given the narrowness of the washing area.  Cullen leaves the door open when he washes, himself.  But that is because he lives alone and there is no one to see.

     Carver, however, has left the door open because he doesn't care what Cullen sees.  That is the only conclusion Cullen can draw, because Carver is yawning as he stands there dripping and dragging the sponge over his pale skin, showing no sign of concern that -- well, that Cullen might wake and see him naked.  He hasn't bothered to put on the washing-slippers that Cullen left in the room for him, nor has he bothered to don the bathing-tabard that sits folded on the windowsill.  These things are polite to use in public baths, but hardly anyone uses them in private bathing.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with Carver doing things this way, really.  They are both men.  They are both warriors, not effete lordlings overly concerned with modesty.  If Carver does not care, Cullen should not either.

     But Cullen watches.  His eyes follow the sponge as it slides down, trailing soap over Carver's flat belly.  He has scars here and there, some of them still pink, and one especially livid bruise just below his ribcage on the left.  The sponge keeps going, making lazy circles and disappearing behind him as he washes his back, reappearing in long strokes down his thighs, scrubbing perfunctorily at his shins.  Carver sits down to scrub his feet -- the floor is already wet, this must be his second wash -- absently humming some tune while he works the sponge between shockingly long toes, then getting to his feet once more.  Cullen thinks he will reach for the bucket and rinse, but he tosses the sponge aside and picks up the soap directly, lathering both hands.

     Then he washes his genitals.  He's careful about it, _fastidious_ , fingers working their way through soapy black pubic hair and sliding briefly out of sight behind his balls.  He rinses that hand and soaps up again, this time taking his cock in hand for a few perfunctory strokes.  He yawns again while he pulls back the foreskin to get under there.  Then when he finally picks up the bucket to rinse, he lifts himself and splashes a little with one hand get the rinsewater under everything.

     And Cullen is hard as the dwarves' Stone.  His fingers tingle.  His breath has gone shallow.  He licks his lips.  Then Carver glances up, and belatedly Cullen remembers that he is no longer an unranked junior knight; he does not have the safety of a helmet to conceal his raw lust.

     Guiltily he forces his eyes up from Carver's body and meets his gaze for just a moment.  His heart is pounding, for more reasons than one.  He fears so many things:  a look of disgust.  Derision.  _He'll never want you.  No one wants you._   But Carver only looks mildly surprised.

     Cullen lurches to his feet and goes over to the hearth.  He has no reason to go there.  He just needs to be out of sight of those terrible blue eyes for a moment.  He needs -- tea.  Yes.  Guests should have tea.  There's a kettle near the fire, where Keran must have put it.  His usual blend.  Cullen takes a cloth and grabs the kettle's handle, splashing a little from its spout into the ashes where it hisses, and carries this over to the table.  One of the trays has been decimated; Carver was hungry.  Cullen concentrates on pouring tea into both of the cups anyhow, because that way he will not think about the fact that his cock hurts.

     No.  _Tea._   "Do, ah, do you take sugar, Carver?" he calls.  Yes.  Mundanity.  "Or, or milk?"

     There is silence for a moment, which prompts Cullen to frown and look around and then almost drop the kettle, because Carver is standing in the doorway of the room now.  He has propped his arms up against the top of the door-sill, relaxed, casual, _naked_ , and magnificent as he drips on Cullen's living-room floor.

     His nice clean cock juts forth now, full and ripe and eager.  And he is looking at Cullen with unmistakable meaning.  "I take everything," Carver says, softly.

     Oh sweet Maker.  Cullen can't even pretend he's not looking.  He just stands there, speechless and breathing fast, twitching a little, for what feels like an hour.

     Then Carver drops his arms and takes a step toward him, and that breaks the deadlock.  Cullen jerks and turns back to the table and reaches for a teacup.  He knocks it over and says a very bad word and then is appalled at himself and fumbles for a cloth and oh Maker, oh Andraste, that is Carver's hand reaching around to take the cloth from his hand, and he stops again when Carver says, very close to his ear:  "Cullen."

     He makes a sound that is not a word.  Flames, what is wrong with him?  "Yes?"  That's better.

     "Why'd you invite me to stay here?"

     He can't think.  He can't think of anything but the truth.  _I feared I would never see you again and I wanted --_

_I wanted --_

     No.

     Yes.

     Oh, Maker.

     "I... you are..."  He can't think.  "You are a friend, of course.  A friend in need."

     There is a moment of silence.  Carver's standing just behind him, radiating body heat at his back.  Cullen thinks of Carver stepping a little closer, moulding himself against Cullen's body, pressing his face into Cullen's hair -- he yanks himself away from this thought, violently.

     But he does not yank himself away from _Carver_.

     "What do _you_ need?" Carver asks.  And then -- oh -- and then Cullen feels a hand on his back, just below the shoulder, and sliding down.  It is almost soothing.  "You're always alone.  The way you used to look at me, sometimes, I thought..."  He licks his lips.  Cullen actually _hears_ that.  "I thought, 'maybe.'  And even after the Deep Roads and the Wardens and everything, when I saw you again, you still looked at me like...  Tell me I wasn't imagining things."

     Lie, comes the thought to Cullen's mind.

     _All her smiles were lies_.

     But he does not want to lie.  He wants --

     _No one wants you.  No one will be with you_.

     But these are the words of a demon, and he rejects them out of long habit.

     "You... were not imagining things," Cullen says, softly.

     There is a little exhalation behind him.  Relief?  Was Carver uncertain?  Somehow this eases some of Cullen's fear.  So he does not jump this time when Carver steps closer, and his free hand cups Cullen's shoulder and begins a slow slide down his arm.

     "Were you watching me wash?" Carver asks.

     Cullen shudders all over.  His hands are tingling _because he wants to touch_.  His lips are wet _because he wants to taste_.  His cock aches --

     "Yes," Cullen breathes.

     Carver's breath hitches a little.  Cullen feels him nuzzle at Cullen's hair, just behind the ear.  "Good," Carver says, and takes his hand.  He guides that hand back, and Cullen lets him, and all at once there is something hot and hard and silken-skinned and heavy in his hand, and Cullen makes a broken sound.

     " _Really_ good.  'Cause... I liked you watching," Carver says against his hair.  And he's breathing hard too, isn't he?  Bloody Maker, he _is_ hard.  Cullen's fingers twitch, curling almost involuntarily around Carver's cock, and Carver makes a little sound that will live in Cullen's dreams for the rest of his life.  Then Carver's fingers are on his cheek, turning him 'round so they're facing each other, and Carver is right there up against him, with only enough room between them to allow for Carver's erection and Cullen's hand that's cupping it.

     "You can do more than watch, if you want," Carver suggests, and almost before he has finished speaking Cullen is on him.

     Cullen wants everything.  He knows nothing of how to _have_ what he wants.  But instinct steers him right when he tries for a kiss and delves into Carver's open mouth with lips and tongue, even though he has never kissed this way before and knows the theory only from catching mages at it after curfew.  Carver's mouth is hot and tastes of chewed cinnamon.  Cullen's mouth is not nearly so sweet, yet Carver moans and meets his tongue halfway with no hesitation.  It is the most erotic thing Cullen has ever felt.  He has to pull away suddenly because if he doesn't he'll come in his pants.  But before he can catch his breath, Carver slides a hand under his shirt and down into his pants and Cullen _yells_ , it feels so good, just the simple touch of someone else's hand after so many years of only his own.  He grabs Carver's wrist.  "Ohbyallthatisholy, _no!_ "

     He means _no, please, I want this to last_.  But Carver stills and frowns.  "No?"

     Cullen has to gulp for air.  "N-no, I... I don't mean..."  And now Carver is withdrawing his hand.  Cullen grabs his arm and holds it in place.  "Please!  I, I just... I cannot bear it.  Your t-touch.  Sweet Andraste, I _want_ you so, Carver.  I have no control."

     The words are slurred, desperate, barely coherent.  Somehow, though, he has gotten his meaning across.  Carver relaxes.  "Oh."  Then his smile, that bloody Amell smile, grows lopsided and wicked.  " _Oh_.  Has it been awhile?"

     "Not since Ferelden," Cullen says, trying not to plead.  He is _sick_ with wanting.

     Carver starts.  "But you've been here longer than _I_ have."

     "I -- "  Cullen looks away, obliquely ashamed.  But then Carver pulls him close and starts undressing Cullen in quick, ruthless movements.

     "Fuck that," Carver says roughly; Cullen's ears burn.  "Let's take the edge off."  And then while Cullen is still puzzling these words out, Carver grabs his arm and hauls him to the couch.  When he has Cullen naked, he flops back onto it, pulling Cullen with him, and there is a momentary tangle of confusion and limbs, and suddenly Cullen finds himself on top of Carver, face to face and chest to chest and cock to cock, which alone is like a hundred dreams Cullen's never admitted having.  Then Carver has a hand on his buttocks to pull him down and at the same time he's thrusting up and Cullen involuntarily thrusts back and --

     oh

     Maker

     He would be embarrassed, if the grinding relief of the orgasm were not so sweet. 

     In the wake of it he clings to Carver and pants raggedly into his neck, all his limbs shaking, his mind sluggish.  Carver laughs and reaches between them, and Cullen feels his own slick wetness being stroked over them both.  Carver is still thrusting against him; Cullen twitches with every roll of his hips.

     "I'm sorry," Cullen groans, shutting his eyes against tears.  This was not what he wanted.  Carver is so beautiful, Carver is _here_ and _touching_ him, and Carver _wants_ him, Carver actually truly wants him, and this is all he has to offer?  Cullen feels like the worst person in the world.  "I'm so sorry, I did not mean -- "

     "Shh."  Carver's breath is light and quick in his ear, and -- is that a kiss?  On his ear?  Cullen shudders and clutches harder at him, wanting and helpless.  "We've got all night.  Now you don't have to hold back, yeah?  I'm the one who's gonna have a hard time.  I've been wanting you for _ages_ , Cull."

     Maker give him strength. 

     Carver kisses Cullen's shoulder and shifts a little.  "You got any oil?  I guess we could use that stuff you gave me for my armor, but I'd rather... well."

     Why is Carver asking about oil?  Cullen drags his thoughts out of _skin, his skin is so soft, I never imagined he would be so smooth and soft all over, but hard too, it is not much like a woman at all --_   "Uh, in -- in the bedroom.  M-my massage liniment..."

     "Mmm, bedroom.  Yeah."  But Carver's tongue is tracing the edge of Cullen's ear as he says this, and it takes awhile for the words to sink into his mind.  Then he understands and jumps, then pushes himself up so that Carver can rise.

     "Ah, er, yes.  Yes.  Forgive me."  He gets to his feet and is still shaky.  And he looks down at Carver lying naked and wet on his couch, legs spread and cock full, the evidence of Cullen's desire splattered on his belly, and he has to make a conscious effort to extend his hand to help Carver up.  Part of him wants to just leave Carver lying there, to look upon, forever.

     Carver grins as he comes up.  "You always look at me like you want me."

     "I do," Cullen says, and Carver's smile fades a little.  He blinks at Cullen in surprise, and belatedly Cullen worries that he has said too much, or said it with too much emotion.  He turns away, but Carver catches his arm.

     "All I can promise is tonight," Carver says softly.  There is no sadness in his voice; this is just a thing that is.  "I have to go back to the Wardens, and I might die next week.  If I see you again I'm yours again, but I know that's not much to offer."  Carver abruptly looks ashamed.  "Wardens... don't really make good lovers."

     Cullen frowns, confused.  "Neither do Templars."

     Carver blinks, then chuckles a little.  "Huh.  Good point."

     Cullen shakes his head, still not understanding why Carver has felt the need to say these things.  Does he not _know_?  "I will take anything of you," Cullen says.  "A night.  An hour.  To be honest, I would be happy just to be thought well of by you."

     Carver grimace-smiles.  "I've always thought well of you."  But then he steps close, sliding his arms around Cullen and moulding their bodies together so that Cullen feels the hard, insistent length of him jabbing at his abdomen.  Cullen thinks he will die of it, so much skin on skin, so much want to match his own.  Carver lets out a low, hard breath.  "But I've always wanted _this_ , too.  Ah, Maker, Cullen, there's so many things I want to do to you." 

     And Cullen shudders all over, suddenly glad that Carver has "taken his edge off", or he might have spent himself by those words alone.  "Th- the bedroom.  Please."

     "Yeah."

     So they proceed to the bedroom.

     It is an education for Cullen, and perhaps a revelation.  Carver does things to him for which Cullen has no words, and can only echo clumsily when Carver relents and permits.  There is suckling of parts Cullen did not know could be suckled.  He is bitten in ways that he did not realize could feel good.  There is only one unpleasant moment, while Carver is stroking Cullen's revived erection and Cullen feels the stroke of oiled fingers against his nether entrance.  The memory of this locks his muscles and makes him remember a cage and a demon and pain beyond bearing.  It is a measure of how frightening this is that Carver immediately hears the difference between the gasp that he utters then and the gasps he has uttered before -- and Carver stops then, stroking him back to comfort, kissing away his fear.  He murmurs in Cullen's ear, "I won't.  I won't ever, not if you don't want.  Only what you want,"  and that makes him lean into the caresses and want again.

     So then Carver guides Cullen's fingers to show him what to do, and then his cock to show him where to go, and what follows is... is...  _communion_.  Perfection.  The soft, wet clap of flesh sliding into flesh.  The rhythmic sounds of breath and breath, occasionally broken by his groan or Carver's.  They are standing on their knees near the headboard, Carver bracing himself against the wall and Cullen behind him, inside him, caressing his hips and kissing his back, and as he does these things Cullen suffers a sudden flash of something like déjà vu, except this is something he knows he will see in the future.  In his fantasies, if nowhere else, for this one night will give him material enough to masturbate to for years. 

     But he thinks there is more to it than simple lust.  He thinks, perhaps, that now when he sees that Amell smile in his memory, he will feel no more regret.  He will never again have to fight to keep his demons at bay.

     "Nnh..."  Carver's voice is blurry with pleasure and exhaustion; they have been on each other for hours.  "Oh _fuck_ , Cullen, _fuck_ , don't you stop, I'm gonna come, feels so fucking good, don't."  He fumbles back, grabs one of Cullen's hands, drags it 'round to his cock, which is hard and hot and feels wonderful just to touch.  Cullen strokes him and feels dizzy and wonders if men ever die during sex.  But it is Carver whose voice skirls higher-pitched as he throws back his head and cries, " _Cuuuuullen,_ " as if he can bear no more.

     And Cullen thinks, _This is a glory unto the Maker._  Then he grips Carver's hip and drives hard against him, until Carver is sobbing and Cullen himself is muffling his cries against the sweat-drenched skin of Carver's back, and then they are both gone.

#

     In the morning Carver takes his leave, and Cullen walks him to the courtyard gate.  Anyone watching will see the way that Cullen looks at him, and the way that Carver takes his hand, once and briefly, in lieu of a kiss.  It matters little in any case since spies within the Gallows have surely listened at his door and heard Cullen crying his pleasure and begging for more.  Those who respect him will perhaps think him more human for having a lover; those that despise him will use it against him in whatever way they can.  That is the way of things now, though he does not care.

     "I'll see you soon," Carver says.  He is not smiling this time.

     Cullen nods and makes himself reply, "It is a promise."

     He stands at the gate and thinks of Carver's face as he walks away, and keeps thinking of it long after the ferry has dwindled into the distance.

#

     "Ser Cullen," says Meredith, and by her use of _ser_ rather than his title, Cullen knows what is coming.  He thought she would not care that he has been with Carver, but plainly someone else has found a way to pique her interest.  Or rather, her paranoia.

     So he stands at attention before her and holds his tongue while she upbraids him for "shameful dereliction" in daring to have shared his company with a Grey Warden, because the Wardens are "offenders against the Maker's law in the most flagrant way" in that they condone blood magic.  She expresses her disappointment in him for his "poor judgment" and recommends that he select his friends more carefully, even though she knows he has no other friends.  And then she quizzes him on what Carver might have said that will incriminate the Wardens and convince the Chantry to at last declare an Exalted March against them as it should long ago have done, and... and... and.  By the time she is done he wishes she would just have him whipped; it would be less a waste of his time.

     But Cullen shows no sign of his irritation until she says one thing:  "And if I find proof of the rumor that your _Warden_ Hawke has been feeding Order secrets to our apostate _Champion_ Hawke, I _will_ have him arrested and executed as a heretic.  Do not doubt my power, even over Wardens -- "

     "You will do no such thing," Cullen snaps. 

     Meredith falls silent, her eyes widening in affront, or perhaps in pure shock.  Cullen is too angry to be shocked at himself.  He continues:  "Your support in Kirkwall hangs by fingernails.  You have alienated every noble, infuriated the Merchant's Guild, and very nearly turned Elthina against you.  Your own Templars conspire in the shadows -- and _I am all that stands between them and your downfall_."  Her eyes widen, and Cullen takes a deep breath, trying to marshall his fury.  "I have supported you, and I will continue to do so, because we are of the same mind where it comes to the role of mages in Thedan society -- "  Though this is not quite true anymore.  " -- and because I respect you greatly when all is said and done.  Do not erode my respect with this pointless witch hunt, or by presuming too closely upon my privacy."

     "I have had men killed for less insubordination," Meredith says, with icy quiet.

     He is tired of this.  "Then kill me now and be done with it.  Perhaps when you are forced to run the Gallows yourself, you will focus again upon your actual duties and no longer chase after phantoms!"

     This is too far, and he knows it.  Yet he cannot back down now that he has said it.  She lunges to her feet, her eyes blazing, her hands balled into fists atop her desk, and he knows that if he shows even a hint of weakness, she will kill him.  That is the nature of her madness.  He understands it, perhaps, because it was once the nature of his own.

     So he stands, and glares back at her, and a long fraught moment passes.  Then, finally, her lip curls into a reluctant smile.

     "Very well, _Knight Captain_ ," she says.  "Your concerns about my performance have been noted.  I hope only that your infatuation does not doom us all."

     How terribly ironic to hear his own paranoia thrown back in his face this way.

     She lets him go with an official reprimand -- just for "fraternization with heretics", not even for insubordination.  Cullen knows he got off lightly, and is glad that he only unleashed his temper in the privacy of her office; if he'd done it in front of anyone else she would have punished him to the fullest. 

     But as he leaves her office he sees Ser Mettin lurking at the end of the hallway, and understands then two things:  first, that this has actually been another assassination attempt, and second, that _he_ was not its ultimate target.  Because he did not lie to Meredith; he is all that stands between her and not only those who despise the Gallows' abuses, but also those who would make the Circle their own private den of iniquity.  In her obsession, Meredith has alienated both factions.

     Cullen leaves the administrative wing and heads down to the courtyard, where he takes up his usual post and watches the gate.  But inwardly, behind the mask of his own face, his thoughts are red and furious.

#

     It is Hawke, in the end, who saves Meredith's life.  Not that she realizes it; she is too busy trying to figure out how Orsino somehow orchestrated the attempted coup, apparently not realizing that Orsino is as obsessed and ineffectual as she is.  Cullen is the one left to thank Hawke for his service, and to try and mend the gaping wounds left in the ranks when half the senior knights and enchanters and the best of his recruits -- including Keran, who quits -- are lost to the failed conspiracy.

     Things are dangerous now in the Gallows.  Cullen sees the despair in the eyes of the mages, realizes that _he_ of all people is their only remaining advocate with any power, and he finds himself thinking more and more of Carver's words:  that magic is the enemy, not the mage.  And he thinks of poor dead Thrask, who was a good man when all was said and done, and who once said to Cullen that _this is not the way a Circle should be_.

     Cullen does not write to Carver of his woes, though he sorely wishes that he could.  If Meredith isn't watching his mail, Karras and Mettin and his ilk surely are.  Cullen no longer lets any hint of his concerns about Meredith show -- not even when he talks to Hawke, which he does less often now for his own and Hawke's safety.  He understands what Meredith seems not to:  that she, and he, are _each other's_ only protection.  No one will move openly against either of them so long as they seem united.  However false that unity might be in actuality.

     But he gets a letter anyway, brought directly to the Gallows by a filthy elven urchin, who mentions that she was paid to come by a 'fancy Ferelden in Hightown'.  This Ferelden gentleman apparently told the girl to bring Cullen and only Cullen the letter, because "The Knight Captain could use some good cheer these days, and if I don't my brother will beat me senseless."  And Cullen blushes a little at this proof that Hawke approves of him, for Carver.

     In his quarters Cullen opens the letter and sees that it was sent to Hawke, but the first line says

_Garrett, give this to him, or I'll beat you senseless.  And don't read it unless you want your eyes burned out._

     Which makes Cullen smile.

     _Not dead yet_ , the letter begins unnecessarily, after an obvious gap.  It's not addressed to Cullen, but Cullen doesn't need to be told what's his.  _Not for lack of trying.  You'll see some lovely new scars on me, next time._

     Cullen has to pause here, until his fear and want fades.

_Brother says you look more tired than ever these days.  He must really like you if he's actually noticing something besides his own arse.  Going to tell him to back the fuck off, he's got his elf.  Never works out, Templars and mages, anyway.  (If you're tempted, my dick's bigger than Garrett's, and I have a better arse.  Thought you should know.)_

_Look.  I know what it's like when things go pear-shaped fast.  It's not much of a haven, I know, but I can get you into Ansberg if it pulls a Kirkwall and the gates shut.  Got friends in the guard here.  Tell them you know me, then come to the Warden Garrison.  DON'T let Stroud recruit you.  Fucking grabby Orlesians._

_Bring Brother, if it comes to that.  He won't listen to me, but he will you._

_Do you wank?  I only ask because I don't know how you stood it, all those years, otherwise.  If this helps, I've been thinking about you:_

     And oh bloody Maker, there is actually a splotch that looks like dried semen in lieu of a signature.

     Cullen groans and laughs despite himself.  (He also really hopes Hawke did not read that far, or he will never be able to look the man in the eye again.)  He burns the letter in the fireplace because it isn't safe to do anything else. 

     Then he lies in bed and strokes himself feverishly, eagerly, even oiling the fingers of his other hand and sliding two into himself.  In his mind's eye these are Carver's fingers, and this time there is no fear triggered by the sensation.  It feels good.  So very good.  So _unbearably_ good that he bites his lip to keep himself from moaning a name while the climax bows his back and breaks his mind into little pieces.  And as he returns to himself, he thinks gratefully of Carver's smile.

#

     It goes wrong so fast, and so terribly, but it starts as a routine day.  Cullen keeps his eyes on the gate.  And then Meredith comes down the steps like an inrushing flood, her face set and cold, with a small entourage of officers in tow.  She collects Cullen with a glance and he falls in at her side, ready, cold himself -- because when Meredith has that look on her face, abominations die.  It is good, so good, to feel at one with the Order's purpose again.

     "Blessed are the peacekeepers," Cullen murmurs as they walk, and she throws a glance at him that is both grateful and approving.  It is the first time she has been pleased with him since Carver's visit.

     But when they reach Lowtown and catch up to Orsino -- who has the same look on his face -- Cullen realizes how wrong he has been.  There are no abominations, no blood mages, no lyrium smugglers.  There's nothing here but Meredith's obsession, _again_ , and in his exasperation Cullen begins to let himself think the thought he has suppressed as ruthlessly as he once did his memories of demons:  _She **is**_ _mad, and all Thedas suffers for her leadership._

     He is not ready for this.

     Nor is he ready when the Chantry explodes.

     Hawke looks at him once, his face wrought with horror, as Meredith declares every legal mage in Kirkwall anathema.  Is he urging Cullen to do something?  But what can Cullen do?  This is madness.  Everything is madness.  He isn't ready for mutiny.

     So Hawke does something:  he throws his lot in with Meredith.  Even his mage-hating lover looks at him as if he is a fool for it; that is how wrong Meredith is.  But Cullen can see what Hawke hopes:  perhaps if Meredith sees that not all mages are monsters, that at least a few of them support her, her paranoia will ease.  Cullen follows them both and thinks, _But madness cannot be reasoned with_. 

     And indeed, Meredith's madness grows and swells and finally bursts like a boil gone purple with rot.

     The world ends.  That is what it feels like when Meredith summons unholy power to destroy Cullen and everyone else who opposes her.  It is the most evil magic he has ever seen, worse than even Uldred's petty ambitions -- and as Cullen fights for his life alongside apostate mages and heretics, as he struggles to bring down the _abomination_ that Meredith has become, he understands at last what Carver has been trying to tell him.  Mages are but pawns in a greater game.  _Magic_ is the honeypot luring every mortal -- mage or not -- to their doom.  And who has laid this trap?

     He does not want to think, _the Maker_.  But he does think it.

     So many things die in this battle.

     Then it is done.  Cullen bows to Hawke because _someone_ must lead them; Cullen himself has no more heart for it.  And while Hawke marshalls his friends' formidable resources to aid the city, Cullen turns to the sad remnants of the mages and Templars who have not already deserted.

     "Go," he says to all of them.  He gestures at the Gallows.  "This is no safe place for anyone righteous.  It has not been for some time... and for my part in that, I am sorry."

     They stare at him.  The mages in particular look as if they cannot believe what they are hearing.  Cullen cannot believe he is saying it.  But it needs to be said.

     " _Go_."  He says it again, harshly, and they jump.  "Help Hawke if you love Kirkwall and would fight for it.  Or go elsewhere and choose your sides and your masters; or go to ground and prepare yourselves as best you can.  This will be war, if you cannot see that yet.  There will be no safety but what you make for yourselves."

     He turns his back on them then, and does not watch to see what they do.

     Hawke has listened to this in sober silence.  When Cullen comes to him, he sighs.  "I had hoped you would stay.  We could use you."

     "This is not my home, Hawke.  You know that."

     "Ferelden, then?"  That is from Hawke's elf.  But Hawke, beside him, shakes his head.  He is not smiling.  An Amell's smile is a precious and delicate thing, Cullen knows now; like a hothouse flower, it thrives only under optimal conditions.  And Cullen does feel a moment's regret at the look on Hawke's face.  Part of him wishes he could stay to help make Kirkwall a good place again. 

     But he has his own Amell to take care of.

     Hawke sighs and fumbles in his robes for a moment, pulling out two vials of lyrium which he presses both into Cullen's hands.  "No -- "  Cullen begins, but Hawke glares him silent.

     "Ansberg's a long way, you fool," he says.  "Carver will want a whole man, not some addlewit."

     Perhaps all Hawkes have no sense of propriety.  Cullen grimaces, but nevertheless tucks the vials away within his armor.  "He will want you with me, you realize."

     "Yes, I know, I read that disgusting letter he sent you.  Tell my _little_ brother, the managing bastard, that I'm not interested in saving the whole world.  You and he can do that if you want.  _This_ part of it, though -- "  Hawke's expression shifts to something that Cullen finds very familiar.  It is another Amell look -- not as nice as the Amell smile, but just as memorable and meaningful.  Archdemons have died for that look.  "Kirkwall's _mine_.  Mother gave it to me.  Nobody else can have it."

     Cullen smiles.  It has been some time, again.  He will have to get back into practice.

     "Be well, Champion," he says.  "Maker -- "  He stumbles, here; the thought that has been planted has put out doubting roots.  But habit takes over, and the intent is sincere even if the words no longer feel quite right.  "Maker watch over you and yours.  I... will see you soon."

     Hawke rolls his eyes and turns away.  "If you do, that will mean Carver threw you out, so I _hope_ not."  But Cullen can see that he knows what it means, even if he refuses to play the game.  That, too, is a very Amell thing to do.

     As Hawke walks away, Cullen cannot help looking beyond him at the looming bulk of the Gallows -- smoldering and empty now, and likely to remain so for the forseeable future.  It is the place where he has rebuilt so much of himself, his haven after the horrors of Kinloch, and he will ever feel warmth toward this ugly old Tevinter prison for that.  But in the end, the Gallows is only a building, as poor Elthina once said.  It takes more than four walls to make a home.    

     Then Cullen walks through the gate, and thinks of a face, and sets himself on the road to go find it.

**Author's Note:**

> This started as me basically applying "The Deeper Roads" treatment to my own fanfic, in this case the Templar Canticles, by asking what would happen if that Carver became a Warden. But it ended up a little more complex than that. In my head these are the same Cullen and Carver as in that series, just seen at an earlier stage (starting when Carver's just getting a whiff of puppy love for Cullen, and Cullen's still a deeply fucked-up individual post-Kinloch). There's not so much a point of divergence as a series of microdivergences -- in this continuity Garrett decides to friend Carver (in the Templar Canticles they were rivals), which gives Carver a little more confidence than he initially had in the Canticlesverse, which means that he approaches Cullen in Act 1 instead of just crushing on him from afar, which gives Cullen something to latch onto other than BLOOD MAGES EVERYWHERE KILL 'EM ALL at that stage of his recovery, which ultimately makes Meredith trust him a little less, which makes the Alrik/Karras/Mettin faction a little more powerful within the Gallows, which makes the whole Kirkwall situation go a little more pear-shaped a little faster... Basically the Butterfly Effect, Fanon Style. I didn't really *intend* to end up with Cullen as a disillusioned and faithless Templar exile, telling Kirkwall to fuck off as he goes to meet his fate among the Wardens... but now that it's happened, I kinda like it. Might see where else this goes in the future. I guess we'll just have to wait and see what mischief my useless beast of a muse gets up to next, won't we?


End file.
